


Tender Hearts Rend to Steel

by DisasterLesbean



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Deal with a Devil, Dragons, F/F, Princess!Hermione, Warrior!Hermione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-07 15:48:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19212589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisasterLesbean/pseuds/DisasterLesbean
Summary: She’s a weapon forged in the fires of the Order but wielded in her hands, she doesn’t feel like a weapon at all.





	1. Once Upon a Time

In moments like this, with Dolohov’s throat cracking beneath her steel boot, she wonders if violence is hereditary. He gurgles on his own blood and she presses harder. When she hears a deeper more permanent crack, she removes her boot. 

She supposes violence can’t be hereditary, at least in her case. Harry is perhaps the most earnest human being she’s ever known and they came from the same parents. It must be her then.

“Princess.” Moody’s boots clang behind her. “We should head out.”

“I’m not convinced that’s the best move.” She wipes her bloodied sword off on Dolohov’s stained trousers and slides it into her sheath. “We barely even struggled to enter the courtyard.” Her eyes follow the rooftops, jumping between the burning thatch. She sees it before her scouts; they shout, but her knife is already cutting through the air. She shifts her foot back, avoiding the arrow sailing towards her eye. It cuts across her cheek quick, drawing blood. His body drops quicker.

The failed assassin rolls off the roof. The already fragile thatch and wood collapses behind him leaving ruin in his wake. He’s still alive by the time he hits the dirt. Hermione kicks him over onto his back, her knife struck true and has pierced through the opening in his armor under his arm.

“We’ve taken Hogsmeade. I wonder if your lord shall ever win a battle.” 

His gaze fills with hate at her words. 

“Your victory here only fuels him further. The people see the slaughtered innocents in your wake. They see the burnt villages. He will reign eternal as the righteous ruler.” He spits out at her. He’s a traitor, a believer of the false king. Another heretic believing his king is a god. He spits on all that King Potter stands for.

She twists the knife earning a pained scream before extracting it. “You are a traitor, an incompetent one at that.” 

He lets out an ugly broken laugh, blood coating his yellowed teeth. “I’m not so incompetent, Princess.” He says Princess as soldiers would say whore. He says Princess as she would say Voldemort. She cuts his throat and once again cleans her blade off before returning it to its sheath. She stands to survey the area when her feet betray her. 

They don’t stand as she wishes. They’re unable to catch the ground and hold her body. Moody is by her side in moments. As the only Order member in the courtyard, he is the only person allowed to touch her. He steadies her as her body fails her. Her breathing quickly becomes difficult. It reminds her of the time she was drowned, fruitlessly trying to breathe through something that demands her oxygen as a price for her audacity.

She touches her cheek where the arrow had sliced through the skin. It’s hot to the touch, the blood coming away wet and sticky. It’s lying to her for it is no longer blood. It is as insidious of a traitor as the men beneath her feet. It carries her enemies’ hate to her heart.

She can feel it reaching her heart. It doesn’t slow her heart to a death’s crawl. No, it speeds it up. It accelerates her heart faster and faster until she’s sure even Moody can feel it through her plate armor. 

“Poison.” She says it through cracked lips. She can taste blood. 

“I told you to wear your helmet.” Moody lectures as he tosses her arm over his shoulder. 

“I did.”

“Where is it?”

“Some foot soldiers’ skull.”

“You didn’t put it back on?”

“With his blood all over it? No.”

“Do you think your parents or the Order will take more issues with your deliberate choice to leave yourself vulnerable?” It’s not a question but a promise. If she lives through this poison, she will be punished for being wounded. She grits her teeth as moving becomes unbearable. “Once we get beyond the gates you’ll have to walk yourself to the wagon. They cannot see your weakness.”

“Soldiers in the courtyard already saw me stumble.”

“Black is taking care of them.” She hears the faint animalistic growls and the screams of dying men. 

“I see.” 

They arrive at the gates and Moody release her arm. She stumbles into the walls and her hands slides against rough stone. If she weren’t wearing her gloves, she’s sure it would have shredded her hands. “Did you kill the soldier on this side of the wall or the other?”

“In that house.” She gestures blindly behind her. Blessedly, he goes. It gives her time to try and swallow her nausea. 

“Put it on.” She puts it on. It smells rank and traps the heat from her burning skin. She straightens and nods to Moody. She’s eager to get this over with and collapse in her wagon.

The scene that awaits them is familiar. The soldiers are screaming with victory. Shouts of “Princess” start cropping up until everyone catches on. They slam their fists to their chests with a metallic clang. They stomp their feet, shaking the very earth. It’s a deafening roar for her. 

Her victory, her fight. Just as it has been for years. These are her people, her army. They ultimately answer to King Potter as she does- they are all servants to their King, but she is their leader. Every fight, she delivers them victory. She does it fighting alongside them as she was raised to do. 

“We’ve secured another victory for King Potter. This could not have been accomplished without the efforts of every man and woman here today, dead or alive. Tonight, celebrate! Tomorrow, we start towards their reinforcement camp.” As soon as her speech ends they erupt once more, somehow they are louder than before. She waves them off and starts towards her wagon. Every step is harder, her body so heavy her legs can barely keep it upright. The leather feels as if its shredding her sensitive skin and the steel pushes itself deeper in her. 

Finally, she arrives at the wagon. 

She wonders if this is how she dies. She isn’t ready. She has more battles. She hasn’t said goodbye to Harry yet. 

The pain is overwhelming and her vision blurs, the holes in the helmet meant to see out of become shapeless. “Is she going to die?” She hears Black ask Moody.

“The Princess doesn’t die.”

_Grey eyes. Blonde hair. Soft unblemished fair skin. Warmth she hasn’t known in nineteen years. A body pressed so close they are almost one. A merging that is almost magical. Two beings so in tune with one another they’re connected beyond the fabric of reality. Time, space, it has no place._

_“It’s not much longer now.” It tells her and she hopes it’s right. She doesn’t know how much longer she can live without it._

She wakes up with a parched mouth and soaked in sweat. Incense is lit around the room. The room looks to be a larger tent. Her body is shaky as she tosses her legs over the side of the bed. 

“You’re awake.” Her spine straightens and a cold trickle of fear slides down her back.

“Your Majesty.” King Potter sits unimpressed at a table with his queen. Harry shoots up and over to her side.

“You’re okay!” His eyes swim with worry as he tugs her into a hug.

“I’ll live, Harry.” 

“You scared me.” It’s quietly said. A few years ago he would have said it louder. A few years ago he was still blind to the ways of the world. Now, she just grips him tighter before releasing him. It wouldn’t do for them to appear too attached. After all, she’s just the spare. 

“Lord Moody tells us you chose to forgo your helmet.” Queen Potter announces. The skin near King Potter’s eyes tightens.

“It was a tactical decision. The time to extract the helmet could have been better spent on the assault.”

“I’m sure.” The King stands and walks towards her. “I’m afraid we don’t have time to waste on healing a flesh wound.” The wound had nearly killed her but she doesn’t mention that. She doesn’t mention the dregs of poison that still weaken her nor the way that her cheek throbs painfully. “You won’t be going to the camp.”

“What?” His hand flexes at the break of manners. “May I ask why, Your Majesty?”

“There’s been a dragon sighting in the mountains near Azkaban.” 

She bites her tongue against any words that fight to slip. It’s an excuse, a punishment. She’s been sent on any number of “dragon hunts”. In her youth, she’d leapt at the opportunity. After all, she knows the story. How she had become one instead of two. She wanted to hunt dragons to extinction. Except, no dragon is foolish enough to expose itself so obviously. 

There would be no dragons at Azkaban just as there hasn’t been dragons at any of the other alleged locations.

It is a reason to separate her from her army. Take her away from a victory she’s been working towards for months. Years, even. Beyond the camp lay only a few more villages until their destination. The ultimate goal. Minas Morgul. 

Voldemort’s fortress and last stand. For years Hermione has served to hedge him further and further back. She’s months away from claiming the final victory. If she is sent away on this dragon hunt, it’s possible she won’t be back in time. The ride is long and hard. Azkaban is an island off the western coast which lieslays weeks away on horseback. Luckily she shouldn’t have to traverse the unforgiving waters if the nonexistent dragon is in the mountains.

She is wasted on this journey. She’s the best warrior this army has and the King knows it. He and the Order made her into this. They must know exactly what she is capable of. Yet, they waste her to prove a point. How many of their army will die without her presence? Because of a helmet? She supposes that’s the point. She cares more for her soldiers than they do. They’ll likely win the fight with or without her. Neither the King nor the Order can be bothered about the death of her army. 

“Yes Your Majesty.” She can’t deny her King. She will go chase dragons until she’s wasted enough time to come back. Harry hides his dismay from his mother and father. He’s learned better than to show it. “When do I leave?”

“After midday.” 

She spends the time oiling her leather and armor. She sharpens her swords and daggers and does best to ignore the throbbing that has built into an untenable headache. She dresses, pulling the straps tight over bruises and aching muscles. She doesn’t have time to ease into her armor. Not today with the Order hovering, waiting for her to show a sign of weakness. 

She takes a moment to probe the wound. It’s crudely sealed, likely on purpose. A lesson. One she’ll wear for life. A lesson in dead soldiers, a crack in her face, and the torment of another failed dragon hunt.

She mounts her horse, turning to offer Harry a secret smile, and rides west.


	2. There Was a Princess

The tavern is rambunctious tonight. She’s only a day’s ride away from the coast now and has decided to stay in the small village of Godric’s Hollow. The village is close enough that they should have news of possible dragons or irregularities. It’s out of the way of most common roads but the most frequented road runs through the village. Any stragglers will at some point come through this village. It is the prime spot to investigate and wait out the King’s ire. 

Luckily he hadn’t seen it prudent to send any of the Order with her. She’d been paranoid the first few nights someone was following her but after the fifth night she was sure this was a lone hunt. Likely, the King realized they are at a disadvantage without her on the battlefield and wants his best warriors to fight in her stead.

“Well don’t you look daring.” The woman’s hair is colored a peculiar red and her accent is different than Hermione is usually surrounded by. She’s used to refined accents, accents that deliver status as much as their fine clothes. This woman’s accent is tainted by mud and beer. It’s a dirty lowly thing. Hermione appreciates it in this moment. She appreciates her hair as well. 

Hermione knows the struggles of keeping a dye stick to hair for longer than a day’s use. She’s dyed her hair longer than she’s known to walk. Even though she’s found methods for the dye to last longer, she still coats it after a few days. The King and Queen’s wrath when her dye fades burns too bright for Hermione;, it leaves her scalded and raw.

“Would you believe it was a riding accident?” She learned long ago that attempting to hide her accent was more of a give away than letting it run free. Hiding an accent makes people uncomfortable, wary and suspicious. Information comes more freely if she can earn villagers’ trust.

“Oh, a lady.” If anything her tone becomes flirtier. Her smile is crooked with intentions and her eyes are glossy with alcohol. Hermione knows she could be useful and decides to continue the charade. However, she has no intention on bedding the low born. “You are aware you’re in Godric’s Hollow right? All we’ve got is this tavern and a frozen over lake.” 

“I’m seeing the world.”

“Seeing the world? Wearing leather armor and looking like you took a gauntlet to the face?” She had decided to forgo her plate armor. It would have made her stick out in the tavern even more than a stranger in these parts does. She refused to go in completely undefended. 

“It wasn’t a gauntlet. Shadowmere was having a fit and a root happened to break my landing.”

“A sword then?” Hermione is surprised the woman is still pushing the subject. “Fine don’t tell me. I’ll just assume your face was nearly cleaved in two by a sword. What’re you doing here?”

“It seemed like a good place to rest.” It’s strategically placed and there’s something else. Something of an energy to this place. Something telling her this is where she’s supposed to be. It feels like when she’d gotten three of her fingers severed. She was able to feel their presence and locate them. She can feel a presence here. She runs her thumb over the crude lines connecting her fingers on her left hand. She can’t feel them under the thickness of her leather gloves but it’s reassuring feeling them, not that they have much feeling. 

“We got plenty of rest here.” Her smile is lecherous and her hand slips over Hermione’s arm. “I could be of assistance. I’m plenty restful.” 

“I’m sure you are but that’s not the type of rest I’m seeking.” The woman looks downcast for a moment before smiling again, apparently undeterred. “Have you seen anything...odd around these parts?”

“Hear that, Neville? She wants to know if anything odd has happened!” The woman laughs louder and the bartender grumbles under his breath. “Fool bet me tonight’s drinks you’re a merchant.”

“What’d you bet?”

“A mercenary. After all, strangers in leather armor only comes to these parts for two reasons. Escaped prisoners from Azkaban or some bounty.”

“Both being mercenaries.” 

“Exactly.”

“No soldiers?”

“War doesn’t bother us much here.” The woman’s face takes a serious expression for the first time. “Sometimes we get refugees or soldiers tired of fighting but that’s it. We’re not key to either side, not hostile, not rich in resources.”

“You’re lucky.” The bitterness slips into her tone like an old lover. Hate and resentment are such deep parts of her; they’re more irremovable than her heart. After so many years of being trained to be what she is, so many years of war, seeing more dead than alive, she has come to despise those untainted. She can no longer find herself happy there are those who’d escaped suffering. Harry, being her only exception. Harry is always her only exception. Perhaps the reason she could lose her heart is because it stays with Harry. Harry, who would protect it to his death.

“I know.” She looks Hermione in the eyes. She doesn’t say it to soothe Hermione’s irritation; she says it because she means it. Hermione can see the honesty and decides to settle her anger, let it simmer rather than explode on her best lead so far.

“I’ve heard rumors of dragons in the area.” Usually this claim elicits two reactions: laughter at the impossible and often falsely-accounted phenomena, or false boasting. Instead, this tavern reacts differently. It’s as if they all freeze before remembering they’re not supposed to. The woman seems to sober in an instant. She then laughs, it’s over the top and obnoxious. It’s fake and a moment too late. 

“Dragons aren’t real.” If they weren’t real, she wouldn’t be a weapon instead of a Princess. If they weren’t real, she would know what happiness felt like, what a parent’s love felt like. 

“They’re very real. I assure you of that.” She leans towards the woman and for the first time that night, she looks uncomfortable. She minutely moves away from Hermione. Perhaps she sees the determination in her, the violence that was bred into her. Perhaps she didn’t get it from the King and Queen’s blood, but it was molded by them. Directed under the precise training of the Order. “They just happen to be rare.” 

“Nothing happens in Godric’s Hollow. We’ve no dragons.” Her voice isn’t as strong as it was before and Hermione can use that. She’s scared, she’s weak, and Hermione is certain she is hiding something. They all are. The tavern was explosive moments ago;, dozens of conversations and booming laughter has now quietted. 

“Why are you lying to me?” She takes no pleasure is harming those who aren’t her enemy. If they are not pledged to Voldemort then she is pledged to their protection. Any allegiance is void where dragons are involved. Every citizen of King Potter’s kingdom knows this. She would do anything to claim a dragon’s head, including killing this woman, this whole tavern, if need be.

“Tonks!” Hermione’s head whips around and her world stops. The woman has long light brown hair and the most striking eyes. She thought between Queen Potter and Harry she’d seen the brightest green eyes there are to be. She was wrong. The woman’s eyes are a murkier green than Harry’s, more like she saw in the marshes. It’s not the color that makes her breath stop. It’s the fact that they practically illuminate in this dim tavern. An almost animalistic quality to them. “We’re leaving.” Tonks, the woman she’d been talking to, quickly moves to comply. She closes a hand around Tonk’s wrist intent to keep her there. “You’ll do to let her go.” 

The tavern looks ready to take the green-eyed woman’s side. She weighs her options. She could kill them. She knows even banded together drunken villagers wouldn’t be a match. She still lets Tonks’ wrist go. Tonks rushes to the woman and Hermione pays for her food and drink. 

She’s quick to pick up their trail in the snow and tracks it. It weaves from the road and into the city. She’s rounding a corner when she’s pushed back. Cold steel introduces itself to her throat.

“Do you often follow unarmed villagers around town?” A new voice. Tonks’ and the green-eyed woman are behind her aggressor. “Eyes on me or you’ll bleed out in the snow.” She brings her eyes to her aggressor when she feels the dagger break her skin. 

“You’re not exactly unarmed.” The withering look her captor gives her makes her think the icy river would be warmer. Her eyes have the same shine as the green-eyed woman but they’re ocean blue. Her bone structure is sharp and defined, aristocratic. She looks like she’d be at place making niceties with Queen Potter were she not in Godric’s Hollow. Her dress is of a similar make. Too fine for a village this small. Peculiar. 

“I should kill you.” The blade sinks deeper. Deep enough to cause Hermione’s blood to run instead of dribble. Despite her words, her expression is faltering. Hesitation perhaps at killing someone. Hermione doesn’t think that’s quite right. She’s seen people hesitate before a kill and it doesn’t look like this. This looks deeper, layers she doesn’t quite understand. She doesn’t need to understand. 

Hermione takes her captor’s hesitation as an advantage and shoves her away, quickly drawing her sword. It presses into the woman’s chest and any hesitation flitting across her face has been wiped away. Her lips press into thin lines and her jaw clenches. Hermione isn’t sure what’s happening but the woman seems to be swelling. An odd feeling graces her, her mind supplies the word fear. 

She readies her arm to thrust forward knowing letting the woman gain any ground would be a foolish move.

“Stop!” She turns her head despite knowing it’s foolish to turn her back on an enemy.

Blonde hair, fair skin, grey eyes.

It’s impossible. It shouldn’t be. Her sword arm wavers for the first time since she was six and she learned what happens if she hesitates. Her grip slackens and she nearly drops her sword. She can’t. She can’t drop her sword when she realized the truth. 

The animalistic gleam in their eyes makes much more sense to her now. 

She tightens her fingers around the worn familiar grooves of her sword handle. He sees the violence in her. The shocked expression turns into one of fear. “No!” He screams once more, this time she doesn’t hesitate. She brings the sword down with both hands.


End file.
